"So, stir your stumps, Saint Giles; and, if you mean to lock us up, use despatch. ” He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. She thought of how much she wanted to eat the foods she had once feasted on that now smelled as innocuous as spring flowers. ‘Can’t you trust me a little?’ His touch sent shivers running through her, but Melusine did not withdraw her hand. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. You know—I worship you.
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